The Renegade

by Terri Farley

  Chapter Twelve

  The wind shrieked so loudly, rushing around the ranch house all night, not even Blaze heard the hens squawking when half their house was smashed to splinters beneath the cottonwood tree.

  Sometime after midnight, a combination of drought, rain, and wind had forced the tree to tip over. When Gram and Sam walked out to hurry through morning chores before Gram left for the fair and Sam for school, the cottonwood tree was tilted, branches down, roots up.

  “Oh, my goodness!” Gram’s hand covered her lips, but only for an instant. “Help me count them, Samantha.”

  Since there was nothing to be done about the tree, Sam did as Gram asked, counting the Rhode Island red hens who had hopped over the flattened fence.

  “At least they were smart enough to stick around,” Sam said, and when they’d both counted twice, it turned out she was right.

  Three hens had been trapped inside, unharmed, and the rest had decided freedom wasn’t worth drowning for. They huddled clucking and complaining near their house, waiting for Gram to do something.

  Would Gram stay home after all?

  Sam looked at the tree roots, skeletal and black against the gray sky. Was this a sign that she shouldn’t ride out to check the Phantom even if Gram and Dad were gone?

  “Well, ain’t that an awful-looking thing?” Dallas had come from the bunkhouse. Hatless and smelling of maple syrup, he stood with his hands on his hips. “The other boys are still eating, but we can get this put together in no time.”

  “I don’t know,” Gram fretted.

  “Don’t even think about skipping your trip,” Dallas scolded. “All we was going to do today was push those heifers back uphill again. Seems they remember grazin’ down here when winter’s coming on, so they want to stay down, no matter if higher ground is safer with all this rain.

  “You and Wyatt go on. Nothing here the rest of us can’t take care of. Isn’t that right, Samantha?”

  Sam swallowed hard and nodded.

  Dallas’s question and her own, uneasiness kept Sam, in a haze of guilt all day. Gram had kissed her good-bye, promising to call both Friday and Saturday nights. Dad had told her to let Dallas and the hands worry about the chores. All she had to do was study and enjoy having the house to herself until they got home Sunday evening. When he’d given her a hug that lifted her off her feet, Sam almost cried.

  As the school day passed, evidence kept piling up to convince Sam she’d make a lousy criminal.

  She was gathering her book and notebook at the end of history class when Mrs. Ely asked what she had planned for the weekend. Sam panicked.

  “Why? What do you mean?”

  “I just thought you might come over, and keep Jake company.” Mrs. Ely looked up from her grade-book, eyebrows raised.

  “I’m working on my history project.” Sam fell back on her cover story without thinking that Mrs. Ely was the one who’d made the assignment.

  “Oh. Good.” She looked surprised. “How great that you’re getting an early start.”

  At lunch, Jen asked the same question.

  “Why do you want to know?” Sam demanded.

  “Don’t jump down my throat. I was just going to see if you wanted to come over for popcorn and videos, since your dad and Gram are going to be gone.”

  “How did you know?”

  “You told me,” Jen said patiently. “And you talked about it with Mrs. Coley this morning in the car, remember? Because she’s going to the fair, too, and my mom’s picking us up?”

  “Oh. Yeah. No, I can’t come over. I’m working on my history project.”

  “Fine.” Jen held her palms out as if her agitated friend might charge. “I guess you’re trying to get off restriction early by getting good grades.”

  The bell rang.

  “Right,” Sam agreed, but as she walked to class, Sam decided there was another reason to get good grades. If she flunked out of high school and turned to a life of crime, she’d be down at the police station confessing before she did one thing wrong.

  Sam had never really considered Jen’s mom, Lila Kenworthy. If she noticed anything about her, it was her faint Texas accent and her tendency to look tired. But not today.

  When Lila pulled up in the Darton High parking lot, driving the Mercedes in place of Mrs. Coley, even Jen noticed the difference.

  Jen slid into the backseat first, and Sam heard her ask, “Are you--are we going somewhere, Mom?”

  “Jen.” Mrs. Kenworthy’s voice held a gentle reprimand.

  “Thanks for picking us up,” Sam said. She noticed Mrs. Kenworthy’s short blond hair was poufy and she wore eye makeup.

  “No problem,” she said, but her attention seemed focused on Rachel.

  Rachel entered the car wordlessly. She wore jeans, a white top, and a canary yellow overblouse that kept the outfit from looking casual. She fastened her seat belt, then waited a few seconds to see if someone would trot around and close the door for her. When no one did, she sighed, leaned out, and pulled it closed herself. But she didn’t say a word to Jen’s mother.

  “Did Dad get Maniac loaded all right? Jen asked, then added for Sam’s benefit, “He’s entered in the best-of-breed competition at the fair.”

  Sam guessed that was another difference between Linc Slocum and. Dad. If Dad wanted to show an animal in the county fair, he loaded it into a trailer and drove it there himself.

  “They came to an agreement after a while,” her mother said.

  Sam didn’t envy Jed Kenworthy the task of convincing the tiger-faced Brahma bull to enter a stock truck.

  They were on the highway, headed for home, when Jen’s mom spoke again. “So, Rachel, I hear you want to be a rodeo queen.”

  Sam had expected Jen to keep Rachel’s secret. Judging by Jen’s open mouth and wide eyes, she’d hoped her mom would keep it, too.

  Rachel straightened with the grace of a Siamese cat and gave Jen a look such as a cat might give a mouse, but her voice sounded polite.

  “Why yes, Mrs. Kenworthy, that’s so. I’ve been toying with the idea, although I’m discovering it’s not as easy as it looks. Jen tells me you competed.”

  “I did, and that’s why I brought it up. I’d be glad to help if I can.”

  Jen stared at the back of her mother’s head as if she’d begun speaking Swahili. From what Jen had said before, Sam knew the Kenworthys and Rachel exchanged fewer than a dozen words each month.

  “I do have one advisor who’s competed more recently.” Rachel blinked in a leisurely manner that showed off her eyelashes. “However, I’d appreciate your impressions. Especially what you learned from the experience.”

  Sam had never seen Rachel’s charm in action. She knew some people--even teachers, who should be wiser--liked Rachel, but since the rich girl had never tried to impress her, Sam hadn’t seen this side of her.

  “What did I learn?” Mrs. Kenworthy relaxed into the driver’s seat. When she talked next, there was a smile in her voice. “I learned to put on mascara in a moving truck. I learned to go to school in hand-me-down clothes because anything I bought new had to have sequins. I learned to make a loop of duct tape, stick it to my forehead, and press my hat against it so it didn’t blow off as I galloped around the arena.

  “You’ll lose points for that, you know, when you’re being judged,” Mrs. Kenworthy’s dancing eyes rose to the rearview mirror. “Girls these days can use double-sided tape.”

  “Double-sided tape,” Rachel repeated, touching her forehead. “But doesn’t that irritate your skin?”

  “It leaves a red line, but nobody’ll see it except your horse, because you’re never without your hat.”

  Jen seemed to be studying her mother, weighing her words. Sam wondered if the woman was trying to discourage Rachel or just give her a reality check.

  As they passed War Drum Flats, Sam looked out the window for mustangs. The entire area was a different color than usual, darkened by days of rain, but there wasn’t a horse in sight. Li
la Kenworthy drove in silence for a few miles, and Sam saw only a few cattle searching for grass.

  “Honestly, though, Rachel,” Jen’s mom continued, “the two big things I learned were to ride any horse they pushed at me--sometimes you’ll ride one belonging to the stock contractor; you know, and not your own--and to get along with people.”

  “Now, that’s a valuable skill.” Jen seemed set on interrupting her mother’s lecture.

  It almost worked.

  With the River Bend bridge in sight, Mrs. Kenworthy added, “At least your dad won’t have to take out a loan on your, house to pay for cases of hair spray. My dad was always joking about that.”

  The cottonwood tree had vanished, and the ranch hands had done such a good job of repairing the hen house and fence, Sam had to look carefully to see where they’d patched and nailed.

  When she started up to the house, Sam smelled the fresh-sawed wood. The tree had been cut into lengths for the fireplace and stacked neatly on the front porch to dry.

  Sam shrugged off her backpack, but before she went into the empty house, she checked on Ace. Only a few days had passed between her decision to ride into the Phantom’s canyon alone and now. She hadn’t been able to give Ace the endurance preparation he deserved for such a long, hard ride.

  “I’m counting on your mustang toughness,” Sam told Ace when she reached the barn. Ace shoved his chest against the fence. “No, you rest.”

  “What for?” Dallas shuffled into the barn.

  Sam let out a squeak of surprise.

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you, hon,” he said. “Guess you and Ace were having a personal conversation.”

  When he patted the gelding’s neck, Sam noticed Dallas’s knuckles were swollen. And yet Dad had given him and the other hands her weekend chores so she could “study.”

  “Why don’t you quit work early, today, Dal?”

  “Been doin’ that all week. This rain’s like a vacation, ‘cept for resetting fence posts that are washing out of where they’re set.” Dallas shook his head. “This ground’s soaked up about all the water it can hold. You be careful if you go out riding early.”

  Sam smiled, but she felt a little sick. Dallas himself had supplied an excuse for her absence. Hadn’t Dad told him she was grounded?

  Straw rustled in a stall that was usually empty. As Sam moved to look inside, Dallas explained.

  “It’s Buddy. Thought you might like to help me give her that inoculation. Just a precaution, but your Dad likes to be careful with her.”

  “Sure,” Sam said. In fact, she didn’t want to help give Buddy a shot, but Buddy would appreciate her nearness.

  When Dallas came with the syringe, Sam wrapped her arms around Buddy’s furry red body.

  “It’ll just take a minute,” she crooned to the calf as Dallas held up the syringe and flicked it. “Just a minute, and you get to stay in this nice warm stall.”

  Buddy gave a surprised bleat, and her ears flapped, but that was all. She twisted to get free and Sam released her.

  “No problem,” Dallas said. “Guess your bulldog-gin’ career is over.”

  Reminded of rodeos and Karla Starr, Sam took a breath. Dallas had worked for a stock contractor. That made him an expert. She had to ask.

  “Dal, there’s talk …”

  “There always is.” The foreman’s gray-haired head came up as he said it, though, and his expression turned attentive.

  “Do you think it’s possible Karla Starr would catch mustangs to use as bucking horses?”

  “Possible? Sure. And that gray stud you like would be a prize. He’d be a real crowd pleaser ‘cause he’s pretty, and a real arm-jerker ‘cause he’s strong. A cowboy could earn a lot of points if he stayed on. And if he didn’t--well, that’s every rodeo fan’s fantasy, to see a horse that’s never been rode.”

  Sam’s spirits fell lower than ever, until Dallas crossed his arms as he leaned against Ace’s corral. “Now, is that likely? Not if she’s just starting out and wants to stay in business. There’s ways to catch mustangs, of course, but to my way of thinking, it’s just not worth the risk.”

  “That’s what Brynna Olson thinks, too. And Dad.”

  Sam relaxed, feeling like she’d just climbed into a warm bathtub. Obviously, Karla Starr wouldn’t do such a thing. The Phantom was probably holed up in his cozy canyon with his mares and foals, waiting out the storms.

  Sam might have given up her whole plan if Dallas hadn’t started nodding and added, “Then again, some folks think they can get away with anything and not get caught. Heck, sometimes they’re right.”

  Sam paced. If she was going to go, she should go tonight, right after Gram called, so she’d be back by the time Gram called again Saturday night.

  She warmed up the dinner Gram had left for her. When she realized it was only four o’clock, Sam left the meal on the counter, ate three cookies, and drank some milk.

  This was stupid. It wasn’t raining now, but it was wet, and she’d seen Teddy go down in slippery footing. She shouldn’t endanger Ace. Or herself.

  She unloaded her backpack onto her bed, then scurried around the house. She gathered a flashlight, matches, granola bars, and an apple, and put everything in plastic bags inside her backpack.

  Would it be safer to ride out tonight or leave before daylight tomorrow? She couldn’t decide.

  Then, Sam remembered telling Dad she wasn’t like Rachel, who’d snatched Champ and sneaked away. Sam dumped the supplies out of her backpack. She was not going.

  Without reheating it, Sam ate the meat loaf and mashed potatoes Gram had left. She ate standing, staring at the kitchen clock, and remembered the Phantom in the BLM corrals. Mane tangled, eyes crazy with fear, he’d slammed himself bloody against the fence rails. How much worse would he feel after being trucked from rodeo to rodeo, when men tried to ride him? Would he remember how she’d led him gently to the river and climbed on his back long ago? Would he blame her somehow?

  Sam ran down to the barn and grabbed a slicker. It was dusk and the smell of spaghetti sauce came from the bunkhouse kitchen. The hands were having dinner, so they hadn’t seen her. Probably. But why had she brought the slicker to the house? She should have left it in the barn, near Ace, so she could wear it when she rode out. If she rode out.

  By the time Gram called, Sam had changed her mind a dozen more times. Gram asked if she’d eaten. Sam rinsed her dish as she told Gram the meat loaf was great. As Gram told how they’d stopped for lunch in Darton, how they were meeting Brynna Olson’s parents for dinner at a steak house, Sam wanted to scream with tension.

  “The first round of the chicken cook-off is at nine tomorrow morning--Samantha, is everything all right?”

  Sam looked at the telephone receiver. She didn’t know what to say. “Everything’s fine. I miss you guys.”

  “Well, we miss you, too. I’ll call you tomorrow night and tell you what we won. Good night, sweetie.”

  It was the right thing to say, because Gram hung up happy.

  Sam walked out to the front porch and faced into a warm breeze. She heard a night bird’s call, but not a single splat of rain dripping from the eaves. Dark and light flickered inside the bunkhouse, where the hands were watching television.

  Sam stared into the night sky. She could see stars, not clouds. Maybe the storms had gone east. Maybe the wind and rain wouldn’t return for weeks. If she left tonight, she’d have plenty of time. She wouldn’t rush or make mistakes.

  In ten minutes, she’d pulled on her boots, hat, slicker, and backpack full of supplies. She left a few strategic lights and the television on, and started toward the barn.

  Ace’s neigh floated through the night, urging her to hurry, and Sam felt better. Ace wanted to go.

  By daybreak, they’d both be in the canyon. Ace would be home, and she would be relieved, watching sunbeams turn Zanzibar’s coat to silky silver.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Ace knew he was going back to his first home. He lo
ped through starlight, head high, breathing the fragrance of sagebrush and creosote bush. A few hours without rain had improved the footing. His hooves struck the dirt in a smooth rhythm as he swooped to miss puddles.

  They headed toward War Drum Flats, cut left through a brushy ravine, and traveled up through a series of switchbacks. Ace negotiated the zigzags with such precision, Sam felt light-headed by the time they reached the boulder that nearly blocked the tunnel to the valley.

  They slipped past it, and Ace’s hooves echoed on the rock floor. Sam pressed her cheek against his neck, staying low to avoid hitting her head on the stone ceiling. Along here, somewhere, cracks crossed the ceiling. She’d seen light shine through them before, sparkling on the Phantom’s coat.

  Tonight there was only darkness.

  “Whoa. Ace, ow! That was my head. Whoa. I’m getting off.”

  The gelding danced in eagerness, so Sam kept a grip on the reins as she climbed down. She heard faraway sounds that could be questioning nickers or water running over rocks.

  The Phantom had always greeted them before. Ace had bowed to the stallion’s authority and followed at his kingly pace. This time, Ace’s hooves clipped her boot heels and he shoved her along with his chest.

  “No!” She turned to face him, but could barely see his outline. He filled the gloom as he tried to shoulder past.

  “Ace, you’re only here for a visit.” Sam gave a light tug on the reins, reminding him he wasn’t returning to the wild.

  The gelding blew through his lips and followed Sam.

  She saw stone walls soar against black sky strewn with a million diamond stars. She saw shadowy horses, alert at this invasion, and then the stallion trumpeted a challenge and charged.

  He wasn’t the Phantom.

  In the instant before she clamored atop a boulder, pulling Ace out of harm’s way, Sam knew it was a different horse. This stallion was taller, darker, younger.

  “Hey!” she shouted.

  The horse veered, unnerved by her human voice.

  Sam squinted, wishing she could see more than a murky shape, but as she huddled against the boulders, waiting for the light, it was enough to know the Phantom was gone.